


Of Fire and Nectar

by JaxonJames13



Category: Spartacus: Blood and Sand
Genre: Action, Angst, Blow Jobs, Captivity, First Time, Forced Orgasm, Hand Jobs, Hate Sex, M/M, Nudity, Power Play, Slash, Training, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-01-14
Updated: 2011-01-14
Packaged: 2017-10-14 18:19:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,934
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/152104
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JaxonJames13/pseuds/JaxonJames13
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Title: Of Fire and Nectar<br/>Type: Slash, first time, episodic (hidden scenes)<br/>Rating: NC-17<br/>Fandom: Spartacus: Blood and Sand<br/>Pairing/s: Spartacus/Crixus (Spartycrix, Spix)<br/>Episode Setting: Somewhere between Season 1‘s Episode 9 “Whore” and Episode 10 “Party Favours”<br/>Word Count: 1890<br/>Summary: Another day of toil and swordsmanship at Batiatus’ ludus, and yet another exchange of heated sentiments between Champion of Capua, Spartacus, and his perplexed predecessor.  Crixus loathes the man that now holds his title, and he makes no secret of it, no matter the disrespect involved.  Spartacus, though preferring peace or at least a ceasefire, proves to be a little too acidic when bitten, for Crixus’ tastes.  Doctore’s disciplinary action thereafter, unexpectedly leads to bad, bad things…so bad they’re good.  Exactly what happens when you put two Gladiators in secluded confinement when each hates the other?  Perhaps even Sura could not predict such things…and if she could, perhaps she would enjoy it, if a gay porn fanatic.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Beware of Higher Lash

**Author's Note:**

> Warnings: This is my first ever S:BaS slashfic, so keep that in mind. I‘d never planned on writing any fic for this fandom at all, so I hope it turns out well. Like all of my fics this one does not consist of spiteful smut. I let sexual chemistry and interactions build up somewhat believably and naturally so if you have no interest in good characterization, humour or nifty dialogue and just want Sparty and Crix to just start fisting each other after in the second paragraph after some fighting, then this won‘t be the fic for you. May be slightly spoilerish to those who have not seen “Whore” (the 9th episode of Season 1) and perhaps other episodes prior to that. Also, there are some references to Greek mythology which may or may not confuse some readers. First in a series, not all chapters will be smutty.
> 
> NOTE: Strictly NonCrit; you’re not professional, I didn’t employ you, so don’t bother. Reviews are welcome and if you want to add me as a friend on LJ/MSN just let me know!
> 
> Disclaimer: Don't own Spartacus: Blood and Sand or the characters, just like writing about it and them and interpreting them as shameless oversexed whores.

Each burning sun of Capua’s new days served as reminder to Spartacus that he was far from his homeland of Thrace, a fact which need not have been reiterated to him by any method outside of obvious intelligence, yet did all the same. No matter how inferior the fact of his physical location in comparison to those which concerned the new Champion’s heightened mortality, Spartacus could not help but find foreign discomfort to the dry air that now filled his lungs, the hardened soles of his feet weary still of the Roman sand upon which they stood; so much so that his soul still heard songs of it. This day was not unlike others that had recently came before it; sweat born of the sky’s golden fire as well as routine exhaustion, and yet enduring such seemed to have gotten easier. Respected by his brothers of battle for the position to which he has ascended, from beginnings that were not only humble but also painfully devoid of promise, Batiatus’ trophied Gladiator may well have now been more golden than the fabled apples that had cost Atlanta the race, yet if a tree, his roots still both wooden and firmly planted. He knew the cost upon his honour if ever he should lose sight of the man his wife had loved, as well as he knew of the wretched corruption that perpetuated from his accepted Dominus, yet though journey through this felt to his heart a weakness, his conscientious spirit was in fact the greatest of blades amidst his arsenal. Though his respect for the arena remained absolute in it’s truth, the once commonly despised Thracian would let his peers and audience celebrate him, he would even let them believe that his ego had responded accordingly just as he would his Dominus that he was no more than a willing puppet of death and unquestioning execution. Instead of him, they saw the mantle of his victory; yet he saw them all, a valuable treasure to hold in the fates that were to come.

The hollow clamor of practice swords and their collisions filled the air around him without steady pattern. His rise to greatness as unheard of as his particular favour with his Dominus, Spartacus took no advantage of this when it came to his training, though growing ever more masterful, his swords still rested last of all, much to the envious rage that Crixus spared no effort towards hiding from behind the orbs of his specifically designated sight. The former Champion’s eyes never left his successor, nor did they falter when Spartacus’ own had caught their fierce gazes. It sent Crixus to a measure of madness, observing the glory of a man he could make pieces of without his best efforts exerted, more so because Spartacus so well fit the image to which he had been rewarded and held, even moistened with the sweat of his exertion, he pressed on through his vigorous regime with no hardship expressed in his wake, not even a tenseness to his jaw; he made it look so easy. As Crixus found it difficult to keep his mind’s roar from evolving to one that had become vocal, though awake he dreamt fast of the many ways in which he would love to break the filthy, undeserving Thracian, if only it were an option or at least without a trace leading back to him.

“Your eyes continue to find concern with me, Gaul. Have matters not yet been settled enough? Is it my blood that you must crave and fail still to shed more of?”, Spartacus uttered softly, his words both provocatively direct as well as they were spoken in respectful volume; it was not Spartacus’ intent to humiliate Crixus before others present, least of all while he had fallen from grace, though no matter the Thracian’s efforts, the larger Gladiator would not meet them well; Crixus found no possibility in anything of Spartacus being favourable.

“You would deny my eyes the admission of their master’s sentiments? Filthy Thracian, you may own the crowds as well as their coins just as I once have and will again, but you own no claim to whom I look, nor to whom I wish broken bone.”, the less intellectual Crixus shot back with barbed ease of viciousness, an impressive effort on his behalf, and if not for his quickness to thought then for his inimitable proclivity to rage and how naturally he expressed it through nuance that could not be taught.

“Save your passions for pursuit of them, lest you wish to waste them now with me. Perhaps then will your chances lessen to narrow.”

“Ahahaha,”, Crixus bellowed a feat of unkind, obnoxious laughter that bounced from the concrete walls behind him where he sat, not intimidated enough by the Champion to stand in fear of his potential action, “Advice!? From you!? I am to learn from a man more feminine and frail than the cunt from which he was born!? Make no mistake in this Thracian; to be Champion of Capua can not be bought, and yet you have made such purchase with pennies of luck. You victor over me but once when strength had not yet returned, and you raise this fact as though a medal to Jupiter. Your reign of this ludus is one of falsehood, and by my sword will such lies by torn apart.”, the angered Gaul delivered, as rabidly as Hades’ hounds did death.

“Then let me extend my acceptance of such invitation, whenever you feel you are once again returned to your former glory. Our brothers might benefit from yet another display.”, this time Spartacus’ intent was maligned, poking fun at his fellow Gladiator’s sore spot, which all knew existed; his removal as Champion in the Thracian’s wake, his brutal loss in battle to Spartacus but days ago, before all now also present. How it sent Crixus into a frenzy of hate and rage to hear Spartacus speak such words through untroubled tongue, soft and deadly like sweetly flavoured poison, the smaller man showing absolutely no sign of fear or concern in his physicality, how it riled Crixus. Whatever rise the Gaul sought from the Thracian, he was never justly rewarded, but instead further insulted and outwitted in a flurry of subtle atrocities. No sword had ever taken the Gaul quite so off guard, and neither had any man, nor had one ever cut him so deeply in spite of the actual scars his flesh bared; it was he who was used to besting others, unarmed or otherwise, and always unkindly.

“Raise your swords now then, great Spartacus, and with them I shall make sleeve of your deserving anus.”

As quickly as the bemused Thracian turned his head in part to mock his verbal enemy with understated laughter, so too was he struck to the jaw by what felt like the full weight of adult steed, no matter the illusion of such force coming merely by Crixus’ hand. Though the Gaul was large, he was hardly well matched in speed, and yet the weaker man in the fight had surpassed his expectations in skill; no longer the helpless prey he once had been to the prized monstrous lion of the arena. As the bombastic force of Crixus blows fell upon Spartacus like rain made of rock, he drew once more upon the inexplicable fortitude his peers both revered and coveted, which now paired with his excelled proficiency in combat, made him a force that perhaps his attacker would have been wiser to be weary of; most men would not have yet stood after the gargantuan Gaul’s first blow. The insulted Champion threw his swords to each of his sides, making statement that he did not need them. He punched the Gaul just once in the face, knowing that it would not buy him more than a second’s chance to begin true retaliation; he had taken fist to the Gaul’s face before, and had learnt that he might as well have been doing so to thin air. Instead, Spartacus infused the disciplines granted him by Doctore with use, forcing an upwards elbow to Crixus’ chin and quickly chopping at the beastly man’s thick, muscular neck, causing instant pain and breathing desperation to he who towered over the Thracian. Still, Crixus was unlike other challengers and hardly simply a man at all; Spartacus knew that even such a debilitating attack would not fetter this egotist, this fevered animal.

Almost quicker than Spartacus could recollect himself or even think of his next course of action, he found himself thrown backwards an impressive number of feet, slamming into an adjacent pillar; clever, the Gaul had bought himself precious time to catch his breath and process his newfound pain, a cause for caution though, he had gotten much stronger than last he took fist to his Thracian menace. As the vexed behemoth stormed towards him, Spartacus dove under his legs, redirecting Crixus’ punch so that it met the solid pillar once behind it's target; startlingly, this caused barely a grimace in Crixus. Still, it gave Spartacus the time to deliver three full forced strikes to Crixus’ sides with all the velocity of a frenzied panther, kicking down upon the back of one of his legs just above the calf, forcing the Gaul to fall to his knees and hit his head against the earlier problematic pillar. Though the Champion now had his challenger’s head locked and stressed between the closing grip of his arms, from behind, it appeared this fight had ran it’s course, if the cracking of Doctore’s whip was any indication worth addressing; and oh how it was.

“Release him!”, the man of night’s skin demanded, threatening to eviscerate Spartacus’ flesh if he dared deny his order, “Champion of Capua…you have not yet learned to still your temper…you make mockery of this ludus and the Gladiators who have died in honour of it.”

“Doctore, I did not…he came at-”, and before Spartacus could say the word “me”, the cracking of Doctore's whip sounded once more, and less leniently this time. It was true that Doctore held favouritism to Crixus and grew weary of Spartacus, such had been proven more times then one hand could count, however, Spartacus knew better than to appear confrontational on that matter.

“Now is not a time for you to speak, Spartacus. And Crixus, it is to you I hold most shame…as from you, I expect much better.”, the ringmaster spoke; lowly pitched words toned like boiled gravel.

“Yes Doctore.”, both Gaul and Thracian answered, sharing a momentary look of abrupt disgust upon realising that at least vocally, for once they both agreed on something. Of course, the moment fleeted recklessly in time to avoid true punishment from Doctore’s soaring tool of chastisement.

“Todays training for both of you ends now. Instead, you will be escorted indoors. Since my patience with you has exhibited no result, perhaps the test of your patience with one another will prove to have the opposite effect.”, and though dead but yet a seer, Sura could hear the bellows of protest pouring forth from the mind of her husband, as well as his attacker; they did not want to be left together with no other, not even for one grain of sand’s worth to an hourglass.

 

END


	2. These Four Walls

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Title: Of Fire and Nectar  
> Type: Slash, first time, episodic (hidden scenes)  
> Rating: NC-17  
> Fandom: Spartacus: Blood and Sand  
> Pairing/s: Spartacus/Crixus (Spartycrix, mentions of Spartacus/Varro, Barca/Pietros and Crixus/Lucretia)  
> Episode Setting: Somewhere between Season 1‘s Episode 9 “Whore” and Episode 10 “Party Favours”  
> Word Count: 5026  
> Summary: With Doctore’s punishment set in sway, Spartacus and Crixus are forced into isolation with no escape from one another, a resolve of sorts demanded of them from such imprisonment. And yet, none could have fathomed the fashion of treaty that came forth from the shadowed crevices of fate, as mutual nudity and pent up need for dominance catalyses events beyond reasonable sensibility; in the end though, a cause for both men to leave with a smile.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: This is my first ever S:BaS slashfic, so keep that in mind. I‘d never planned on writing any fic for this fandom at all, so I hope it turns out well. Like all of my fics this one does not consist of spiteful smut. I let sexual chemistry and interactions build up somewhat believably and naturally so if you have no interest in good characterization, humour or nifty dialogue and just want Sparty and Crix to just start fisting each other after in the second paragraph after some fighting, then this won‘t be the fic for you. May be slightly spoilerish to those who have not seen “Whore” (the 9th episode of Season 1) and perhaps other episodes prior to that. Also, there are some references to Greek mythology which may or may not confuse some readers.
> 
> Disclaimer: Don't own Spartacus: Blood and Sand or the characters, just like writing about it and them and interpreting them as shamelessly oversexed whores.
> 
> Note: NonCrit; I get it, everyone is an expert, but if I wanted to have my writing picked apart I would pay someone accomplished and qualified, thanks. If you don’t like the fic, don’t comment…better yet don’t read it once you‘ve figured that out.

Only moments after Spartacus himself had been humbled in the act of him, Champion of Capua, being stripped from even the smallest grace of loincloth and thereafter tossed into empty, cavernous cell by the unkind hands of the armoured guards who had relinquished his adornments, so too did Crixus befall the same fate; Spartacus’ brightly spirited eyes glancing with a patient anxiety as the behemoth was tossed carelessly into the room, barely staggering as he found his feet. The sole luxury that had been spared unto Spartacus for being the one, most prized gladiator of this ludus a pittance; he had been thrown into dim isolation first. The air was hot as breath of dragon, and in it’s heat dryer than the sand upon which Spartacus’ feet too often stood, the four walls of this large place of holding not far apart enough for the Thracian’s comfort, for the presence of his hulking adversary did not do well to soothe his thoughts, even when eyes could not find him easily. With his taut, naked buttocks, the smaller man sat upon long, horizontal slab of rock just short of full smoothness, knowing that his lack of fear towards his counterpart would only flay the sensibilities of Crixus, whose primitive senses so keenly detected this, so extremely that it made no matter of any wish from either man that such was not so. Crixus was a worthy adversary, and though fearless, Spartacus did not take the reality of shared conflicts with him lightly, just as one would not mock either head of the hydra if it stood before him hungry for blood of man. Logically, it had at times seemed a matter of concern that Spartacus himself did not harbour true hatred for Crixus, and that which he had displayed came only from retaliation; it was the Gaul who had taken odium with the cunning Thracian, and upon first meeting at that, a truth that Spartacus often considered a disadvantage, for it was with rage born of honest root that men grew to victory against the many beasts of myth. And yet, Spartacus gave no indication that Crixus need be monitored at all, despite his harmful intentions and their promise to rip through the metal of the God’s as paper. Crixus tarred the man he loathed with the molten wash of his witness, which slowly draped across his relaxed form but once, from head to toe, then back again.

“Well done to you, false champion, it is a fine predicament that your petulance brings us to.”, Crixus grumbled in a displeased, insulting manner, standing at the center of the room as unwavering as stone, no unease to his naked form being in full display, proud and glorious as statue that had found breath.

“It has never been I to cast the first stone, Crixus, not at this time or before it.”, the Thracian responded with an immaculate lack of effort that cast Crixus’ blood into pit of flame; his words so quickly clever and cutting, and that look upon his pretty face so unassuming. The former Champion of Capua knew in the most literal sense of personal experience; it was enough to drive a man mad.

“Spare me that tongue, from which a serpent has gone muted. I care not for the puzzle of your words, and if given when unwanted I shall find ways to silence you, no matter the fate I receive for doing so.”, Crixus accused fantastically sly tongue of Spartacus’ to be stolen straight from mouth of snake, making clear the foresight of his actions if further sent through hoops by the other man’s crafty articulation.

“Our exchanging of threats grows tiresome, Gaul, and with no eagerness to release us from these walls until matters are quelled, no man here need further help to find himself sleeping.”, and almost as soon as Spartacus’ words had finishing dripping from his perfectly resilient lips, he found the aftermath unexpected; not the quiet sense of accomplishment he denied to linger within, but instead a curious peering from Crixus’ eyes, that sought his flesh in unfamiliar ways, with tilted head, “The eyes you seek have not fell into my lap, Crixus,”

“It is not your eyes that I seek.”, the masculine wall of muscle retorted, a brush of cruelty painting smile upon his lips; the sort of expression from Crixus that Spartacus was wise enough to dread. And then suddenly, the Gaul became more animated, and with new colour to his voice, laced with hues that clearly lied of their master’s intent; Spartacus’ body victim to involuntary reaction, sitting up tensely within such a moment that Mercury would have gave short applause, “Stand before me as I do you Thracian.”, the Gaul drew himself nearer, the golden light that ebbed from the one small, highly placed rectangular opening of the outermost wall, bleaching Crixus’ closest arm and thigh with it’s beam, if just for a moment. Spartacus was overcome with the clear sense that he was stalked, a lamb amidst the lion.

“I will address you just as well from this position.”, and though Crixus did not even signal his refusal to that insistence with sideways nod of head, the hungry look of wicked victory in his eyes was enough to let Spartacus know of it, “Whichever way that your whim has bent, I suggest that it is straightened.”, and though Spartacus stood his ground, Crixus heard the slight telltale dither of worry hanging in the secret depths of his riveting voice.

“Thought has lead me to realisation; you have made sure to never have yourself bare before my eyes, not to completion.”, the Gaul almost licked his lips in taste of his own imminent devious intention, for the daring fruits it would bring; no matter, his salivation was nonetheless apparent, “So stand proud Spartacus, God of the Arena, and show yourself as man, or do you fret before the blessings I have been bestowed?”.

Typical of Crixus, punch drunk upon the potent liquor of his own barbaric egotism and the similarly civilized machismo cadence it brought with it in harsh slews; he would find time to make games in this situation, ones set to compete in manhood, however superficial and skin deep. His animus once again proved to be little more in sophistication as that of a drooling beast of the pits, taking him to mindless gambits of masculinity in hopes that he would be deemed superior in it, rather than to the resolve these walls intended for both marked brothers of Batiatus’ house. Spartacus’ eyes were no longer as calmly rested as they were famous for, nor were they subtle in witness of Crixus as he lingered over him as manic fiend who meant him disgrace and unwelcome exposure, with face curdled in ridiculous expression of monstrous pleasure. And then, Spartacus found large hands upon his shoulders, claiming him in such a way that control fleeted, and left the bed of his stomach electric with alert.

“Unhand me Crixus, I wish not for these games of yours.”, he said too quickly and with slight deficiency of breath, announcing of his rankled spirit; a divine feast for the gluttonous ears of his gargantuan assailant.

And then, Crixus lifted the Thracian as though he could speak not of weight, no more than a shape made of air within the Gaul’s menacingly powerful hands, palms hot and fevered with dark magnificence. At first Crixus eyed Spartacus directly with winning sneer, and then upon taking his eyes downward, returned to face his dangerously close adversary one more time, this time looking sickened by defeat, and so very clearly fighting against this expression, for it would tell too revealing a tale of him. Before he knew it, his hands had released their hold upon Spartacus, though even after they dropped to his side, fingertips skimming against a fraction of the flawless flesh found at the champion’s own strong arms as they did so, Spartacus remained before him, not desperate now for distance. To the Gaul’s horror, a sounding of light laughter not his own, whispered against the walls that held him.

“You were expecting less to compete with?”, Spartacus asked, more drenched with enraging, sophisticated boldness than ever before, the obscure torment of his gentle smirk weaving a spell of thick, offensive magic in the air, ensnaring Crixus in a tangle from which his great speed could not free him from quickly, and of his own volition, “Perhaps a seamstress then, with a pattern so consistent?”, finally, the force of that smile pushed the Gaul away, if only by a few steps back.

Seeming dazed, and confused as to what stream of thought and action he should push on with, Crixus finally gathered himself enough to bellow a response, “I give no fuck to what hangs beneath your cloth! I would make wider cunt of any woman who had lain with us in ways the same!”, furious in a temper he himself had brought about by foolish errand, Crixus could barely keep himself from lashing out at the insanely provocative Spartacus, a man too blessed for the Gaul’s boundless pride to tolerate, and such was visible.

“Must you always create such a spectacle, Crixus.”, and oddly, Spartacus’ words came kindly, without even iota of nuanced jibe or playful superiority. The Gaul’s eyes darted around the Thracian’s face in pursuit of answers, for he did not understand the reason for this sudden change in tone; Spartacus had Crixus right where he wanted him, once again defeated and ashamed and fully open for onslaught of ridicule that even the future could welcome revisit to, or did he? “When will you learn that where you hold hatred for me, I have no such place for you, nor sentiment to fill it…and furthermore, I would not wish to entertain your proposed challenge; a man such as you would surely make loose of womanly orifice, and I do prefer my phallus be slung to narrow noose.”, and this time, for the first time, Crixus felt alienated by Spartacus’ firm gazes, for where once they plucked at the embellishments of his legend and sought well to piss upon it, they now fell upon him as warmly as the Thracian’s most recent words. “Really Crixus, must we brothers be born to reasonless loathing when stronger united, as victory over Theokoles has proved.”, Spartacus stretched out an arm, palm gestured openly to display it’s desire to find wrist of Gaul, an extension of truce, an offering of mutual benefit, and daresay it friendship.

At first unsure, Crixus’ composure with a life it’s own became relaxed, however reluctantly; and then, even surprising himself, Crixus grabbed at Spartacus’ wrist as though he had no say in the matter, a sudden clap of palm against skin coming to resound through stone that held no pattern or texture. He felt his choice not his own, or at least that it betrayed him, for even though defences had recently been diminished before the Thracian, and kindness offered thereafter in place of torment or ridicule, Crixus knew to his bones that such a truce could surely never be. The very utterance of Spartacus’ name caused flesh to crawl and eyes to bulge, to hear him speak a curse to mind and ear; all that was pleasurable of the man was to break him, or to even dream of it. However minuscule the chance that Crixus be wrong, if at all he was, he did not wish to be proven so. It was clear as both men shook at one another’s wrist but once, downwardly, that Crixus was not entirely invested, for though perhaps part of him knew this prospect best, he had grown so keen in his hatred of Spartacus that abhorrence had set as cooled molten lava within his genes at Vulcan‘s order; impossible to depart from. Yet, through his unspoken discontent, Crixus was further troubled and his eyes did shudder beneath quake of this, for the distinguished kindness of Spartacus born through ghostly, charismatic eyes, became for the first time a comfort; a pleasure of fire and nectar that seemed so forsaken it sent the Gaul‘s muscles into mild flummox.

“You think this truce one gainful for motives unspoken? Spawned of deceit; peace’s promise from lips of Mars?”, Spartacus calmly asked, releasing his grip from Crixus wrist with unmatched, manly elegance, finding himself fortunate that Crixus had done the same, to marginal measure.

“No matter of it that neither brother a friend of lies; such union is doomed beyond shared intent. My hatred for you knows every inch of me.”, the Gaul gave contest to his own anger, which even when mitigated seemed naturally present within the beastly powerhouse that indeed was Crixus; charring his voice with thick wind of harsh night’s unforgiving fury, if only at the edges of it. Spartacus had never seen the Gaul give peaceful look, and this moment spawned no exception. Face of Crixus much like his gait, always seemed so ready for aggression and execution of it; a bull stung twice in areas most delicate, and yet now, there was something different ebbing forth from the behemoth of violence, however well it hid and however slightly it came; something softer, something that compromised his typical boldness. Still, this was hardly the unexpected protrusion that would win out in captivating both men’s attentions

“In talking of inches, it seems as though your hatred has certain effect upon at least eight of them.”, the Thracian remarked, with the smouldering mischief of a devil in the stow of each word parted with, head cocked to one side in a way that was barely noticeable, pride for the reaction of phallic solidity he had seemed to inspire from the zealot of combat. Crixus followed the faint southbound gesture of the other man’s infectious eyes and thus knew of what he had spoken, looking away just once before deeming it cowardly and therefore beneath him. The alchemy of his fiery soul transmuted his frustration into a blazing surge of rage once more, and the thirst for blood and bruise once again bloated his stare. “Still yourself, Crixus; this growth of lustful fervour bares before me no disgrace.”, Spartacus reassured so brilliantly, seeming to steal shine of Jason’s fleece as he did so, placing one hand atop Crixus’ thick lateral muscle and kneading the impressively tough matter there with undefined passion. Looking down once more and then back to the Gaul, the Champion in current reign shed uneven smile of gentle titillation, playful in it’s purpose, “As a matter of fact, impulse informs me to give a kind of thanks.”, he smiled dirtily, intent once inexplicable now taking shape to wayward wares.

“You flatter yourself, filthy Thracian, with notions as poisoned by the swamp you fell into from foul uterus, as all other regard your own. Mistake me not as Beast of Carthage, nor yourself as the frail squire that found pleasure in his shadow.”, Crixus, with no restraint attempted, let known his feeling of absurdity at the thought of Spartacus' obscure flirtation, making clear that he was against the idea of any conclusion devised to come of it. Still, he did not remove Spartacus’ tepid hand from the hot meat of his shoulder, and gave only the fraction of a moment’s shrug to it.

“The flute has made songs of flattery already known, and both of us now hear them; I require not it’s help to determine for whom it has been risen and played.”, the Thracian antagonized without meaning to, with those words of trickery that his listener so despised for their eloquent proficiency.

“I, as you, am without woman to appease, in a place where blood quickens for reasons too many. Do not think this uprising yours to lay claim to.”, a half lie from the larger, more violent man; though while his loins knew resolve in Lucretia’s unfaithful slit of sin, it was not so by pure choice, nor was it ever as constant as needed to satisfy Crixus’ appetite. The lie most denied; one that spoke of truths that coveted unwanted appeal from the delectable Thracian feast before him.

“To many details fall the efforts of a man who wishes denial ring true. Spare us both of them, for they hold no weight in something that need no gravity.”, every ounce of Spartacus’ being poured forth with mystifying guile, more so than usually; a man who with one softly spoken word could send butterflies of change through any atmosphere, his word a harbinger of unwanted thrall, “I take not men as my lovers, though seed can still be spilled and even shared if flavours desired.”

“A man is doomed with you as his whore! I will not know of it!”, Crixus thundered forward, ballistic, his deeply maddened roar threatening to shake the walls that held both men until they cracked and shed tears of dust. One hand now pinned Spartacus’ torso to the wall once further behind him, the other wrapped tight around his neck with pressure that viciously progressed. And then, his deathly grip loosened almost as instantly as it had formed, as new, unwelcome delight flooded coldly through veins of Gaul, shattering his resilience, making composure of body not his own, and painstakingly so. The Thracian’s fist had found his lewd meat, and caused such anaesthesia without even one motion of stimuli; being held by Spartacus in this way alone was enough to make tranquil of the bombastic Gaul and his harmful urges, his simple touch a foreign and delicate magic that overpowered an army of rage within the burly hellion, for it was his, and knowing it gave wisdom not before elicited. Hate Spartacus though he might, the rush of his simple touch could not be denied, as could not the stolen mastery of Crixus’ bodily property; perhaps the Gaul had been wrong in denying the smaller man all along, perhaps in truth he was deserving as Champion of Capua, captivator of men both fine and miscreant. When once he had only wanted his usurper broken or dead, now Crixus came to a fearful resolve; all he now longed for was his touch.

“Allow me to gift you with that which Segovax had coveted but had been denied, and that which turns woeful tears of flaxen friend into upward rising of mouth’s corners.”, and though it sounded like a question that he had parted with, Spartacus’ actions made fact of it being more a warning, as he quickly dropped to his knees and plunged Crixus’ bisonesque weapon of flesh and fuckery immediately to the depths of his gullet.

A surplus moan of relentless sensation crashed forward from the mouth of the Gaul that would far sooner contradict them, but alas it had been too late too escape it’s coming, and even if time had been given to thwart it, Crixus’ would find he had not the rigidity to resist it; irony in that he did not fail to have rigidity elsewhere, in fact, though he did not fully comprehend it in this moment, his grave appendage has not known such fattened bloat for ages he would care not to devise. The supple warmth and wetness of Spartacus’ tongue was but one thing that caused the massive warrior to tremble without volunteer, the artistry with which he took the intimidatingly wide manhood a most important other. A back corridor of Crixus’ mind echoed with barks to Spartacus’ unequalled genius in servitude to his rugged cock, but not enough to refuse the fact of it. Instead, Crixus stood without action his own, a captive of Spartacus’ filthy, knowing mouth and the sordid commodities it blessed with, to scintillating atrocity. He did not gag or hasten as others had, though rightly believed not to be an accomplished sucker of common prick within his passing, and yet he took the mast of Crixus’ loins wholly, and with limitless greed. It seemed there was no end to the Thracian’s talents, and for once, in some way, Crixus did not detest it. It seemed as though no matter how much dick Crixus had to offer, or how brutally he ploughed forth with it, Spartacus only salivated around it in place of wincing, and not as pig either, more so a swan with long neck to accommodate, and unflinching poise that rode upon immaculate feathers.

“You take mouth to something of me that has never known man…you will…be the undoing of me.”, and yet Crixus in many ways, now more than ever, had already been undone by his chosen nemesis, who did not tend to his handsome bulk of sexual invasion as a submissive, much to the larger warrior’s furthered distain.

“Think not of it, and only take mind to sips stolen from your turgid end.”, Spartacus divulged, sweetly deviant in his classy resonance, despite his vulgar actions, shafting the phallus now within his fist’s infuriating grip, Crixus’ body throwing uncontrollably forward in sexual pulses of nervous phenomenon, each wave that came making the mighty Gaul’s mind bleed with profane logic and matched compulsion.

The track of time had been lost, though Crixus was sure much of it had passed, more so because the rules of time had been twisted like spiked chains around his mind, and tightly, with his body’s capacity to tolerate such pleasures he was now gifted, well and truly tested to their full optimum perimeter, stifling to resist release; Spartacus‘ feasting upon his rudest flesh; that good. A thief of breath in fact, a burglar of lowly toned, manly moans, fit for a scene of constipated murder.

“You have…wrung me dry, Spartacus-”, Crixus struggled to form word at all between exasperation, eyelids closing intermittently with a life their own for lucid cry of seductive siren that claimed his senses, only the siren was man with knees before his feet, and one that soured his spirit. He could barely finish his last word, let alone say it at all unbroken, “-and now…you grab pace…from it’s worth.”, he held on for dear life, to gush forth without a perfection in timing a crime he would not commit, even if it killed him.

“If your meaning is to warn of seed’s coming, then consider me warned…and much delayed in welcome.”, it seemed that whatever was put to the Thracian, his reaction did nothing to make Crixus’ archaic lust unruffled; his breath, his look, his shrewd wording, all things that blew breeze of hankering want through Crixus loins, and above it, and beside it, and underneath as well as above it. And with that, the Gaul sounded a once repeated choke, watery and matted by the pillars of his throat’s tense meat, filling Spartacus’ jaws with jet after jet of his rich, pearly seed, polishing the Thracian’s shrewd tongue with perverse flavour in a way that caused the man of more modest frame to hum in beautiful appreciation, however wrong it tasted to him, or felt to he who had flooded his oesophagus with sinful milk that ran as hot as his blood. It was in being wrong that such a thing had become so requited a marvel, a dark and languid symphony, imperishable for all it’s multitude of justified error. Spartacus stood as though he had not been tried, taking the back of his hand to his cum-drenched mouth and chin, wiping firmly to one side until the tips of his fingers left his face, licking his lips thereafter, his expression one that was though relaxed, also indeterminable, until of course he beamed with a moment’s crack of smile.

“This changes nothing.”, the Gaul frankly grunted with breath hardly returned to him, perplexed by the Thracian’s effortless command over he and his illicit sway, as enjoyable as results of it had without doubt been, “This only sends my blood to boil further in thought of you. You have made of me a consort-”, and before Crixus could progress in his loudly boasted tirade, muscles only just ceasing to ripple from orgasmic pressure, Spartacus humiliated him with a soft, shameless kiss, innocent in it’s absence of tongue and more affectionate and friendly than previous behaviour might have dictated, plucked from the heavier warrior’s lips as small coin from child who so admired it, “-You dare!”.

“Your dramatics are lost, for they have no home to go to. The stagger of your thighs has told truth to your enjoyment, as too did the moan of your breath and volume of your climactic stream.”, sparing a gulp for the effect of emphasis to his words, Spartacus knew too well his victory for Crixus’ liking, though he would rather the more powerful man consider the win one shared.

“None shall believe your talk of this!”, Crixus flurried at his own flesh, feeling as though the kingpin of this ludus had infected him beyond the surface of flesh, large, rough hands belligerent in their efforts to scrape and wipe away all traces of him, and the viscous blend of saliva and sperm he had left upon him in spatters of culminating mess. Despite his contempt, Crixus’ tough and ropey phallus refused to slender, much to Spartacus’ acknowledged amusement.

“Why would such things be spoken of? Asher’s game is not my own, and if it were…then I would find no prize in making commonplace of that which I have found pleasure in partaking.”, the Thracian offered a nod splendid of encouragement to the man whose semen still nipped at his taste buds without cause of grimace, “It is ours alone to know of, and have again…if excitement steers you.”, the champion finished, his breath with feint aroma of ejaculate's musk slithering beneath the nostril's of it's sprayer.

And then, a blunt rustling of metallic sounds projected from origin of the thick, well-locked door, demanding the attentions of both men, whose heads jerked instantly sideways to observe their reasoning. Dense iron slid to one side so that both Gladiator’s could be viewed, and thus their intended resolve monitored. Soon after, the door was thrown open, slamming into the wall of stone behind it’s hinges, Doctore stepping in with little patience; his devaluing looks as investigatory as those of a predator surrounded by hungry tribesmen with spears in hand, as though no play would evade or best him, “You two…you seem to have come to some agreement, since neither of you bears new wound.”, the skilful, darkly skinned tutor of combat stated, his natural dominion leaving no room for contest, even if honest reply would present it. Both men nodded in tentative agreement, wanting no quarrel with their superior, who so held Batiatus’ favour, “Then you will return to your cells, and too with training when morning comes. Let me see no more of this conflict between you, for when tried again I shall not be so lenient in my practice.”

“Yes, Doctore.”, Spartacus spoke for both he and Crixus, whose tongue had numbed for discoveries of unwanted exposure almost made upon him, the Thracian secretly sick of speaking the two words to the man who carried leash as license to lord.

“Then Crixus, you will come with me now. Domina has cause for you that is pressing, and Spartacus, I trust you will give no trouble to the guards as they escort you back to your hold.”, and at Doctore’s words, Spartacus’ head gestured a ‘no’ at the idea of presenting resistance to escort.

As suddenly as they had shot to his, Spartacus felt Crixus’ eyes fix to him as broaches; glancing down in a way that Doctore would not notice, Spartacus discovered grounds for Crixus’ concern, for he was still erect enough for penis to give throb beyond angle of horizon, and such would be a telling thing if seen by incriminating spectator. With that, Spartacus put keen intellect to circumstance and steadied the line of his own sight once more to Doctore; efforts to salvage this predicament keenly forthcoming.

“If I may Doctore…a few more moments with Crixus. You had caught us at a time of treaty, incomplete. I would ask no more than for a few more words, if such a thing would be permitted.”, Thracian cleverness came this time to Crixus’ favour, though for intolerable moments of anxiety, Doctore hastened to speak in reply.

“Very well. Guards, lock not this door at my departure, and see that these men leave soon once I am gone.”, the black hierophant let loose his decision, unhappy though he seemed of it; for he held no enthusiasm towards granting the Champion’s requests, and yet in ways that triumphed, he was obliged to. Within seconds, the men were once again alone, and no longer being paid observation.

“Fine then, Spartacus. You have proven yourself of honour this time, and to that I am indebted, but you must beware of the things you start; for if I am to wake with taste at all for your uncensored touch, tomorrow or days that best it, I will not rest until I have you exactly how I crave. Once lit, I am a fire that none have force enough to banish.”, though Crixus’ thinking had taken new labour, he let known his incapacity to leave kind impression upon his superior counterpart, little mind to the fact that Spartacus had protected his dignity at a time when he could have taken whim to eviscerate it for past and current offences. His demonstration came to no avail though, it seemed, as Spartacus simply took grip to circumcised head of manly protrusion once more, and squeezed at it amidst one apathetic tug, causing the Gaul to inhale when he did not need breath.

“You will have me again Crixus, and it will be when you ask of it in humble request. See well to Lucretia, as I too plan soon to see her truly fucked, and not in ways she would favour or moisten from.”, and so then it was that Spartacus left Crixus loosely jawed and without harness for speech, his naked, unrelenting strut the last of him he would see for a while; at least until tomorrow, when different swords would be drawn.

 

THE END


End file.
